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Spontaneous Me by Walt Whitman
Spontaneous me, Nature,
The loving day, the mounting sun, the friend I am happy with,
The arm of my friend hanging idly over my shoulder,
The hill-side whiten'd with blossoms of the mountain ash,
The same, late in autumn--the hues of red, yellow, drab, purple, and
light and dark green,
The rich coverlid of the grass--animals and birds--the private
untrimm'd bank--the primitive apples--the pebble-stones,
Beautiful dripping fragments--the negligent list of one after
another, as I happen to call them to me, or think of them,
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely pictures,)
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men like me,
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always carry, and that all
men carry,
(Know, once for all, avow'd on purpose, wherever are men like me, are
our lusty, lurking, masculine poems;)
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers,
and the climbing sap,
Arms and hands of love--lips of love--phallic thumb of love--breasts
of love--bellies press'd and glued together with love,
Earth of chaste love--life that is only life after love,
The body of my love--the body of the woman I love--the body of the
man--the body of the earth,
Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,
The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and down--that gripes
the full-grown lady-flower, curves upon her with amorous firm
legs, takes his will of her, and holds himself tremulous and
tight till he is satisfied,
The wet of woods through the early hours,
Two sleepers at night lying close together as they sleep, one with an
arm slanting down across and below the waist of the other,
The smell of apples, aromas from crush'd sage-plant, mint, birch-
bark,
The boy's longings, the glow and pressure as he confides to me what
he was dreaming,
The dead leaf whirling its spiral whirl, and falling still and
content to the ground,
The no-form'd stings that sights, people, objects, sting me with,
The hubb'd sting of myself, stinging me as much as it ever can any
one,
The sensitive, orbic, underlapp'd brothers, that only privileged
feelers may be intimate where they are,
The curious roamer, the hand, roaming all over the body--the bashful
withdrawing of flesh where the fingers soothingly pause and
edge themselves,
The limpid liquid within the young man,
The vexed corrosion, so pensive and so painful,
The torment--the irritable tide that will not be at rest,
The like of the same I feel--the like of the same in others,
The young man that flushes and flushes, and the young woman that
flushes and flushes,
The young man that wakes, deep at night, the hot hand seeking to
repress what would master him;
The mystic amorous night--the strange half-welcome pangs, visions,
sweats,
The pulse pounding through palms and trembling encircling fingers--
the young man all color'd, red, ashamed, angry;
The souse upon me of my lover the sea, as I lie willing and naked,
The merriment of the twin-babes that crawl over the grass in the sun,
the mother never turning her vigilant eyes from them,
The walnut-trunk, the walnut-husks, and the ripening or ripen'd long-
round walnuts;
The continence of vegetables, birds, animals,
The consequent meanness of me should I skulk or find myself indecent,
while birds and animals never once skulk or find themselves
indecent;
The great chastity of paternity, to match the great chastity of
maternity,
The oath of procreation I have sworn--my Adamic and fresh daughters,
The greed that eats me day and night with hungry gnaw, till I
saturate what shall produce boys to fill my place when I am
through,
The wholesome relief, repose, content;
And this bunch, pluck'd at random from myself;
It has done its work--I tossed it carelessly to fall where it may.
= = = = = = = = = =
In Memory Of Alfred Pollexfen by William Butler Yeats
Five-and-twenty years have gone
Since old William pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid
In that tomb by him and her
His son George, the astrologer;
And Masons drove from miles away
To scatter the Acacia spray
Upon a melancholy man
Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies
Far from the customary skies,
The Mall and Eades's grammar school,
In London or in Liverpool;
But where is laid the sailor John
That so many lands had known,
Quiet lands or unquiet seas
Where the Indians trade or Japanese?
He never found his rest ashore,
Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John?
And yesterday the youngest son,
A humorous, unambitious man,
Was buried near the astrologer,
Yesterday in the tenth year
Since he who had been contented long.
A nobody in a great throng,
Decided he would journey home,
Now that his fiftieth year had come,
And 'Mr. Alfred' be again
Upon the lips of common men
Who carried in their memory
His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard
A visionary white sea-bird
Lamenting that a man should die;
And with that cry I have raised my cry.
= = = = = = = = = =
The Akond of Swat by Edward Lear
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a POT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
= = = = = = = = = =
The Rock and the Bubble by Louisa May Alcott
Oh! a bare, brown rock
Stood up in the sea,
The waves at its feet
Dancing merrily.
A little bubble
Once came sailing by,
And thus to the rock
Did it gayly cry,
Ho! clumsy brown stone,
Quick, make way for me:
I'm the fairest thing
That floats on the sea.
See my rainbow-robe,
See my crown of light,
My glittering form,
So airy and bright.
O'er the waters blue,
I'm floating away,
To dance by the shore
With the foam and spray.
Now, make way, make way;
For the waves are strong,
And their rippling feet
Bear me fast along.'
But the great rock stood
Straight up in the sea:
It looked gravely down,
And said pleasantly
Little friend, you must
Go some other way;
For I have not stirred
this many a long day.
Great billows have dashed,
And angry winds blown;
But my sturdy form
Is not overthrown.
Nothing can stir me
In the air or sea;
Then, how can I move,
Little friend, for thee?
Then the waves all laughed
In their voices sweet;
And the sea-birds looked,
From their rocky seat,
At the bubble gay,
Who angrily cried,
While its round cheek glowed
With a foolish pride
You shall move for me;
And you shall not mock
At the words I say,
You ugly, rough rock.
Be silent, wild birds!
While stare you so?
Stop laughing, rude waves,
And help me to go!
'For I am the queen
Of the ocean here,
And this cruel stone
Cannot make me fear.
Dashing fiercely up,
With a scornful word,
Foolish Bubble broke;
But Rock never stirred.
Then said the sea-birds,
Sitting in their nests
To the little ones
Leaning on their breasts,
Be not like Bubble,
Headstrong, rude, and vain,
Seeking by violence
Your object to gain;
'But be like the rock,
Steadfast, true, and strong,
Yet cheerful and kind,
And firm against wrong.
Heed, little birdlings,
And wiser you'll be
For the lesson learned
To-day by the sea.
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